Cat-astrophe

What a horrible week.

As you might have read in a comment post, last week was a jumble of twenty-hour work days in an attempt to finalize a huge contract that took me to three cities in as many days to meet with principals and shore up loose ends before the holiday weekend.

I was then assigned to touch base with a client in a fourth city, and arrived exhausted, prepared to do nothing more than enjoy some celebratory sleep and drinks over the holiday. But I arrived on Friday to discover that the central air in this property had gone kaput...unacceptable in this part of the country. So rather than dropping into a much-needed coma sleep, spent the day calling around for a repair person to come save me from the stifling heat.

That tackled, I regrouped and called some local friends to see if they wanted to meet up later in the day Saturday. That never happened, because as I was puttering around the house, I noticed the cat seemed out of sorts. At first, I thought it might be a combination of a bad attitude from my being gone for most of the week and his recent flight to rejoin me. But when I went to pet him, he actually growled (!!!) and hissed at me.

This was definitely a first. It was a stretch to think that the cat was pissed about the flight, because he typically defies all cat characteristics and actually is an awesome little travel buddy. When we take road trips, I belt his carrier into the passenger seat facing me and he hops right in and lays down. While I drive, I leave the carrier door open and he'll casually pop his head out every once in a while, check out the sights, then crawl back in and purr with pleasure.

I knew straight away that something was definitely fucked up this time, and stood frozen for a minute thinking about what to do. As I pondered, the cat managed to projectile vomit like a five-year old in a school play. Went to the fridge where we keep a list of local emergency numbers and rang the vet. The vet, of course, was closing in ten minutes and couldn't get my little monster in for a visit. But he did tell me that, based on the vomiting and other symptoms I described (I'll spare you the details) that kitty was definitely in distress and needed to be seen immediately.

Because of the timing, this meant a trip to the Emergency Vet. Now, if you're a pet owner, you're probably like me and live in fear of such a visit. Not necessarily because of the dire circumstances that will instigate such a trip--after all, thank God for the emergency vet--but because of the expense. Everything, and I mean everything, at the emergency vet costs two to three times as much as a trip to the regular vet.

Knowing this, I did a quick internet search on the possible causes of the cat's symptoms. They all pointed back to what I was told over the phone, and the damn cat needed to be seen straight away. Of course, every regular vet in a three-county region had shuttered their doors for the holiday weekend, off to drink margaritas on their porches and take their boats out for a weekend booze cruise.

So the cat was admitted for some emergency procedures. He's still being caged, poked and prodded as we speak. Again, if you're a pet owner, you know how ridiculously traumatizing this is for both pet and pet owner. Not to mention the fact that the emergency vet in this part of the world does not fuck around when it comes to payment. They would not begin treatment until they had a four-figure deposit in hand. Many, many people who came before me must have burned them hard, because as I was at the reception desk trying not to have a stroke over the deposit, another young woman was being refused treatment for her dog because she couldn't pay.

I returned to the house that evening after a very long day at the vet and couldn't get over how empty and quiet everything felt without el grande gato. I thought about going out, but decided I was shit company for anyone to be around, and realized that my checking account probably couldn't handle much more than the impending vet bill. As this reality caused a small series of panic attacks, I got a phone call from an inconsolable relative, absolutely crushed from a broken heart.

We've all been through this one...the heartbreak that happens sometime in your early twenties. It's gut-wrenching and life-changing. It's the heartbreak that strips away that last thin veil of innocence that we managed to still carry into early adulthood, and the moment it's gone, the world feel foreign and cold. We wonder how we'll ever pick up the pieces and move on, and more importantly how--or even if--we'll ever fall in love again.

It feels like a death, yet even when we're going through it, we know that it's just too disgustingly common to get the recognition it deserves. It's all too similar to a trip to the emergency vet--you may be reduced to tears and palpable dread, but no one else really gives a damn. "Oh, I'm sorry," is about the best that can be mustered. For those in the midst of a heartbreak that actually produces physical pain, it's a reality that seems impossible to reconcile.

So I've been alternating phone calls between emergency vet updates and a girl who I'm sure is currently unable to even muster the energy to brush her hair or teeth as she cries over the destruction of an unspoken future with someone she now loathes with every fiber of her being.

I don't know about you, but I truly feel like this particular holiday weekend can't be over fast enough.